The Empty House
by M. Monty
Summary: It has been three years since Watson witnessed Sherlock falling to his death from the rooftop.   No slash   Lots of angsty Watson and Sherlock. *UPDATED 2/05/12 - New Chapter Up!*
1. Prologue

Prolouge -

The grief was unbearable.

Who knew that someone could have such an affect on another human being?

True, Sherlock was a handful and was arrogant and annoyed him endlessly with his rudeness towards people at times - but he was his best friend...

Turning some, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Mrs. Hudson was a good ways off and couldn't hear him. He didn't want her to hear the important things that he had yet to bring himself say to this piece of stone in the middle of the graveyard.

When he was sure she wouldn't come prancing back over or something, he turned back to the grave before him and took a breath.

"Um-"

He had to stop.

'Breath, John. Just breath.' He told himself.

"Hmmm..."

He swallowed hard and forced himself to gain his composure and speak.

"You...You told me once that you weren't a hero." His voice cracked here and there. It was obviously difficult for him to get out. He had been holding back on this. He hadn't wanted to visit Sherlock's grave since the day of the funeral.

He just couldn't bring himself to do it - just like he couldn't bring himself to go back to the flat.

But he needed to do this.

What was in his heart needed to be said.

He continued. "Um...There were times I didn't even think you were a human but let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So… there."

He thought he was done.

He felt like he had said what needed to be said.

His heart was aching badly though, but he tried to ignore it, tried to brush it off like he was just feeling the sorrow of the moment, and so he stepped forward and gave Sherlock's tombstone a little awkward pat.

But then he stopped, his fingertips resting there on the black stone.

The words just slipped through his lips, unable to stop them. "I was so alone. And I owe you so much."

His eyes began to fill with tears.

They threatened to flow from his eyes like waterfalls, but he wouldn't allow that to happen. No. He needed to be strong. He held it all back - Sherlock wouldn't want him to be sad. He wouldn't want him to be like this.

Turning, he began to walk away, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

There was more he needed to say.

Something that he had been keeping to hismelf since the day he had seen Sherlock fall from that building.

He pivoted around, "Please there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you… just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

That was when the tears finally came.

He put his hand over his face, feeling a bit shamed that he was crying over this. In his heart of hearts he felt that Sherlock was not gone. He couldn't be gone. Sherlock was too smart to let it all end just like this. He wished though that his friend would stop this act and just come back.

He never said it before, but, he needed him.

"I don't have any friends, John...I've just got one."

Sherlock's words rang through his head.

He felt the same way...

Pushing aside all thoughts, Watson gathered himself together. With one final look at the tombstone, he turned and marched out of the graveyard.

He was sure he wouldn't be coming back anytime soon.


	2. Three Years Later

"Mary, have you seen my shoes?"

"No dear - are you sure you didn't take them off by the door?"  
>"That's where I'm looking, but they're not there."<br>Watson huffed a bit, glancing around the door where his shoes usually sat. He was always misplacing them these days. He'd come home from the practice in Kensington, take off his shoes wherever he could, then go rest for a bit before Mary returned home from work. By the time the next day came around, he could never find them.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Watson stopped and tried to think.

Where would he place his shoes?

He started to retrace his steps from yesterday.

It had been raining. In the cab drive back home he had been thinking about how tired he was and how much he just wanted a good cup of tea and to sit by the fireplace for a bit.

When the cab pulled up, he paid the driver and quickly got out - however, in his haste, he hadn't realized that there was a large puddle just outside his door. He stepped out and-

**SPLASH!**

It had gotten all over his shoes, soaking straight through them and his socks.

He had uttered a frustrated curse, then hurried on inside to get out of the rain.

...But what had he done when he got inside?

His shoes were not by the door like they usually were. It meant that he had done something else with them. For some reason, he had walked into the house with soaked socks and shoes on his feet when he normally would have taken them both off. Why had he not taken them off?

_'Think, Watson. Think.'_ A voice in the back of his mind said. 'It doesn't take a genius to figure out where you left your shoes.'

Though, he knew that if his friend, Sherlock, were still around, he would have easily found his shoes. Already he would have been arrogantly leading Watson to where they had been misplaced. Some days, he really wished Sherlock were still around.

"I found them!" Came Mary's exclaimation from upstairs.

And just like that, he was reminded that God may have taken away his friend, but had given him a wonderful wife who was just as smart.

He heard her rushing down to meet him and a moment later she came around the corner and smiled at him, holding up his shoes. "They were in the bathroom. They're soaked though - I don't think you should wear them with it being so cold today."

Watson sighed heavily.

She was right. Wearing soaked shoes in this weather would only give him a cold and that was the last thing he needed. He had patients that needed to be seen to.  
>"I think you have some other shoes in the coat closet. They're a little old, but I'd rather forsake fashion and be healthy than to wear soaked shoes and get a cold." Mary plopped the shoes down on the floor and looked at her husband with a bright fondness. "Now hurry up, silly, before your first patient gives us a call and starts scolding you."<p>

Watson took a deep breath and nodded. "Right. You're right. I need to go." He turned to head out the door - but Mary reached out and grasped his wrist.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" She asked. Her gaze drifted down to his feet.

Watson's gaze drifted as well, then he chuckled. "Shoes! My God, I'd loose my head if it wasn't attached."

Mary just giggled at him and watched as he scurried over to the coat closet and got his older shoes out and slipped them on. Once he was done, she grabbed him once more to plant a kiss on his lips and tell him to have a good day.

"How did I get so lucky?" Watson asked as he paused at the door.

"Mmm, it was just fate I guess." Mary smirked.

* * *

><p>"I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come around."<p>

Watson surpressed a smile as Mrs. Hudson beckoned him into the flat. It hadn't really changed since he had left. Well, her apartment hadn't. The one he and Sherlock had shared though had been cleaned out for the past two years - ever since he had moved out and married Mary. Mrs. Hudson said someone had bought it about a week after the room went on market.

A private buyer.

She said that they hadn't moved in yet. Some men with boxes had come by last week and had set the boxes in the apartment. She had asked where they were from and if the person who bought the flat was going to be coming to live in it finally - but they hadn't said a word to her.

It made Watson a bit weary.

He was concerned for her. Sherlock's enemies knew where he lived and if any of them got up the nerve, they might actually try to take the apartment and hurt Mrs. Hudson. So, he had taken it upon himself to make Mrs. Hudson believe that she was very sick when she wasn't.

Just so he could have a reason to come by and be taken through the flat to just make sure that things were alright.

"I finished that medicine you gave me. I don't feel any different though." Mrs. Hudson replied, showing Watson to the kitchen.

She made her way to the counter and grabbed up a brown bottle, then handed it out to him.

Watson looked it over. It was empty, as she said. The contents of the bottle had been nothing more than some sugar water with dye in it.

Completely harmless.

"Mmm, right. Well, you won't feel different for some time. But considering you've not had any side effects, I find that the medicine is doing what it's suppose to do." He flashed her a smile and glanced around the apartment. Nothing seemed out of place. There were no signs that she was in any kind of danger. He looked back at her. "I'll just bring back some more medication for you after I get off of work today." He said.

Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly. "Thank you dear, though I don't see why you don't just write a prescription so I can get it myself."  
>Watson shook his head. "No! No, why would I do that when you're right on my way home? No, it's fine. I don't mind bringing it over."<p>

"Alright, if you're sure."

"I am." Watson replied, reassuring her.

_-Bing.-_

Watson excused himself for a moment and reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone.

**Your assistant is required.**

**427 Park Lane.**

**-Lestrade**

Watson's brow creased, then sighed and looked at Mrs. Hudson. "I might be late getting the meds to you."  
>"Is anything the matter?" Mrs. Hudson asked, concerned by the look he had on his face. He only got that look when he was about to deal with something bad.<p>

"Seems as if I'm needed by Lestrade." Watson replied.

"Oh, I do hope everything is alright."

He gave her a forced smile. "I'm sure it is."

* * *

><p>That had been a lie.<p>

Watson felt so bad when he left Mrs. Hudson. He didn't like lying to her, but he didn't feel that it was nessassary to fill her in on every horrible thing that happened in the city. Though he had his own practice now, he was still helping Lestrade on the side. It was the part of him Sherlock had created. This side of him that hungered for something more than the average, every day humdrum life. He wanted action, adventure, a thrill - and he got that sometimes while working with Lestrade.

It wasn't nearly as entertaining as working with Sherlock, but it would do.

He canceled the earlier appointments he had had - since he didn't know how long this case would take with Lestrade. He didn't even know what the Inspector wanted from him. Usually he was called in to determine cause of death - other times he was called in just to take care of special victims who had been attacked by someone, or something, and they needed a quick explaination for it.

_-Bing-_

**You almost here?**

**-Lestrade**

Watson huffed. He wouldn't even grace that question with a answer considering he was just pulling up to the residence. Once the cab stopped he handed over a few pounds, then left without so much as a 'thanks for the ride'. He was too focused whatever Lestrade had to show him.

He hurried over to the police line, his thoughts only on what the Lestrade could possibly have for him. He excused himself as he passed by a few people who were standing around, watching the entire thing.

"Watch it!" Snapped a man he accidentally bumped into.

Watson muttered a 'sorry', then ducked under the police line, waving to some of the officers who knew him very well. They motioned for him to go on into the house and he did so, meeting up with Lestrade a minute later.

"Good, you made it." Lestrade looked happy to see him.

"Yes, you texted, I came - that's how it works." Watson replied. "So, what seems to be the problem?"

"You know a thing or two about closed quarter combat, right?" Lestrade asked, leading Watson through the house.

Watson nodded. "A bit, yes. Why?"

Lestrade stopped at the doorway of a room and motioned for Watson to go on inside. He did, finding a man laying there on the floor, obviously dead by the amount of blood that lay on the carpet around him.

"Ronald Adair. Age twenty-eight. His father is an official in Australia." Lestrade explained as Watson knelt down to inspect the body. "As far as we can, he was up here, working on accounts of some kind."  
>"Mmm," Watson noted the papers and money laying around on the floor near a desk where Ronald was obviously sitting at. His attention was more on the bullet wound to the head that he had now found. It was a through and through. The bullet would obviously be found somewhere in the room. "Well, it's obvious this man was shot and that was the cause of death." Watson looked over at Lestrade. "What else could I possibly tell you?"<p>

Lestrade sighed. "Well, how could someone shoot him when the door was locked and he lives on a top floor - with no building around for someone to shoot from? The window was open, yeah, but, the room is 20-feet off the ground."

_Hmmm, that is a problem.'_ Watson's mouth shifted to the side as he stood and tried to think.

How could someone shoot him if he was in a closed room and there's no place around for a shooter to set up a gun to fire at him?

He had no idea.

"If there was a building around, I would saw that a sniper did it." Watson looked over at Lestrade and shrugged. "I'm sorry, but I just don't know. Was a shot heard? Did anyone see someone running away from the building? Someone could have been in the house and locked the room after they shot him?"  
>Lestrade shook his head. "No gun shot was heard. No one was seen running away."<p>

With a heavy sigh, Watson gave Lestrade an apologetic look. "I'm not him, Lestrade." He said, his voice quiet as he mentioned Sherlock. "I can't do his job."

The Inspector's gaze drifted to the floor and he nodded. "I know."

"I wish I could, but only Sherlock could do what he does...I'm sorry."

"That's alright." Lestrade looked back at Watson. "It's fine. Thanks for coming out though."  
>"Is that all you need?" Watson asked, turning towards the door. The Inspector nodded and waved him off, giving him the go ahead to head on home.<p>

Watson did so, his heart heavy as he made his way down the stairs and back out towards the street. If Sherlock were here, he would already have an idea on who might have killed the young man.

...If only Sherlock were here...

Suddenly he found himself tripping over his own feet and getting knocked in the face with a book as he bumped into someone. Several other books clattered to the street corner and a growl from the person he had ran into was heard.

"I am so sorry." Watson said, feeling embarrassed. He got to thinking about Sherlock sometimes and the rest of the world got tuned out. Quickly, he began trying to help the man gather his books. "Here, let me help, again, I'm so sorry-"  
>"Get yer hands off of 'em!" The man snapped at him, smacking his hands away. "I don't need your help!"<br>Watson pulled his hands back quickly, then stood to his feet. "Here, let me...let me help somehow-"  
>"You've done quite enough." The man grumbled, shooting a look at him.<br>Watson's stomach churned some as he was met back with the face of a rather deformed man. "S-sorry..." He said under his breath.

"Yes, I heard you the first time. Twit." The man rolled his eyes - well, er, eye - and grabbed up his books, then stalked off, muttering and cursing about people who need to watch where they were going.

Watson watched him walk off, then let out a breath he had been holding. _'I need to get to work before this day gets any worse...'_


	3. The Visitor

"So, how has your day been so far?"

Watson sighed a bit. He felt like he had done nothing but sigh since the morning his feet hit the floor. It was just one of those days he figured. One of those days where Sherlock was constantly on the mind. First this morning with his shoes, then at the crime scene, and since he had gotten to work three of his patients had commented about the 'good old days' when he worked with Sherlock.

Mary seemed to sense that it had been a rather bad day so far. "I'm so sorry..." Her soft voice came over the phone. "Is there anything I can do to make it better?" She asked.

Watson shook his head, though stopped himself since he realized she couldn't see it. "No. I'm fine. I'll be fine. It's just been a long day." He lied.

He didn't like talking about Sherlock with her. She knew about his friendship with Sherlock. It was the one thing he had talked about on their first date. She had been a patient of his and they had set up a date. It was at some little cafe in the city and Watson had had so much on his mind. He wanted to know where she grew up, what her plans were for her future, all the important things. However, before they could even get started with the small talk he had looked at her and firmly told her that if she was one of those people in the city who believed that Sherlock was a fake and deserved to die, then he had no interest in dating her before he believed Sherlock was innocent and he would always believe it.

It had been a bold statement to make right before anything serious could happen between him and Mary, but it was what made Mary fall in love with him.

His determination to forever stand on his friend's side.

To not care what everyone else thought.

To stand up for something he believed in.

Mary was hooked from the start and Watson knew he had found a good companion in her. She understood him more than anyone else. Possibly more than Sherlock ever had...well...on a more personal level.  
>"You're not fine." Mary stated.<br>Watson smiled faintly. "I'll be fine." He replied. He knew if he didn't say something else, they'd be on this awkward topic of how he was feeling for the next twenty minutes. So, he changed the subject. "I can't wait to get home and be with you - that much is for sure."

He could almost feel Mary smiling over the phone. Today was her day off from her job. She was going to be there when he got home and they had planned to go out to eat together - something they hadn't been able to do in a while before of their jobs.

"I can't wait for you to get home either." Mary said.

Suddenly, there came a knock at his office door.

Watson looked up and his secretary, Linda, poked her head in.

She looked like a mouse. She wore grey all of the time and her two front teeth were just slightly bigger than the rest. She had frizzled brown hair and big glasses that hardly fit on her tiny framed face. The lenses in them made her eyes seem like they were three sizes their actual size.

"There's someone here to see you." She said in her quiet, small, mouse like voice.  
>"Who?" Watson asked, placing his hand over the speaker on his phone.<p>

"A gentleman. He said he met you earlier today."

Watson didn't remember meeting anyone other than the police and Lestrade.

His brow creased and he brought his mouth back to the phone. "Mary, I'm going to have to call you back."  
>"Work calls?" Mary asked.<p>

He smiled. "Yes, it does."

"I'll just see you tonight then." Mary said. "I love you."

"Love you. Bye, hun." He set the phone back down on the reciever and motioned for Linda to let the man in. He heard her say a few words, then the door opened and the man from earlier - the one with the rather deformed face - came striding inside. Watson leaned back in his chair, looking up at the man who seemed to have a permenant look of displeasure on his face.

"May I help you?" Watson asked.

The man peered at him (or maybe that was just how he naturally looked at people?). "I'm here to apologize."

_'Well, I didn't expect that...'_

"For what exactly?" Watson asked.

"Earlier, when we ran into each other. I snapped at you - wasn't very nice of me."

Watson recalled. It had been a rather bad tumble on his part. He had skinned up his knee some and the palm of his hand, but he wasn't going to mention it. "It's alright. I should have been watching where I was going."

"You should have." The man replied arrogantly.

Watson tilted his head a bit. He reminded him of someone.

"No matter though, I have something to give you - as a gift...an apology gift of sorts. You can keep it here. Read it." The man reached into his thick jacket and pulled out a book. The cover was tattered and torn. It was obvious that it had been through a lot in it's time.

Watson looked for a name on it, but the title had been worn off a long time ago. "Um...well, you don't have to give me anything." He said.  
>"I insist." The man replied.<p>

"But-"

"It's a gift. Take it."

Watson found himself tilting his head some more. That attitude, that...voice...

He gave a 'hmmm' and turned in his seat to look at his book case. "I'm not sure I have any room for it here."

"Yes, there, just on the lower shelf. See that space?" The man replied, pointing.  
>Watson turned farther around to see what he was talking about. "What space?...I...it's dark - I'm not sure I see the space that you're talking about." He peered through the shadows, trying to see the space that this man was talking about. "I might just have to take it home. Have it there to read." Watson grunted as he tried to shove medical books aside to make room, but his shelves were already full. He'd have to take the book home.<p>

"I'm sorry, but it just doesn't seem like...like...I have..." His words trailed off and became breathless as he turned around and faced the man again.

He felt, for a moment, like he was going to have a heart attack.

There, standing before him, looking healthy and alive as ever, was Sherlock Holmes. He had taken off an obvious disguse on his face, some sort of rubber mask that was now laying on the desk and he had shaken off the buldgy jacket to reveal his slimmer one. His hands were already digging into one of the coat pockets, pulling out a familiar blue scarf that he always wore.

Watson could only sit there and stare, his face getting paler by the moment.

"Breath John." Sherlock replied.

"I am." Watson replied. "But...you..."

"It's alright. Breath."  
>"I am. But you...but you..."<p>

"Yes, I know."  
>"You...YOU..."<p>

"You can say it."

"You...three years..." Watson slowly got up from his seat. "Three years!" He hissed breathlessly at Sherlock. Now it appeared anger was seeping into his shock.

Sherlock gave a faint smile. "That's it John. Let it all out."

Watson hurriedly made his way around his desk, though he tripped up some on his own feet before he got to standing right before Sherlock.

"Three years!" He shouted. "I thought you were de-...dead." His chest felt that familiar squeeze of emotion as he thought back on the day he saw Sherlock fall from the roof top.

Sherlock gave him a sympathetic look. "I know. I needed you to believe that."

"Why?" Watson snapped, shooting him a glare now. "Why would you do something like that? W-what kind... of... person does that? Hmm? What kind of person fakes their own death like that?"

"Someone who was trying to save your life." Sherlock replied calmly.

Watson shook his head. "Don't you dare-"  
>"What?"<br>"Don't!" He shouted. "Don't you say you did that to save my life-"  
>"Watson-"<br>"Three years, Sherlock!"

"Three years that I understand I can't make up for, but I did it to protect you and that's the truth. You can like it or hate it, but there it is." Sherlock replied firmly. "I know what I did to you must seem cruel and coming back now after you've surely gotten over everything must feel like a slap to the face, but I am back and you're just going to have to deal with that now."

Waston was quiet for a moment or two after that, but then he spoke up once more. "I never got over anything." He replied. "The image of you falling to your death is SEARED into my mind."

Sherlock's eyes filled with guilt. He knew that his 'death' had affected his friends greatly, most of all Watson, but it had to be done. If he hadn't jumped...

He didn't even want to think about what would have happened.

"I am so sorry, John." Sherlock replied softly. "Will you give me the chance to explain myself?"

He wanted to tell him no. He wanted to punch him in his bloody, arrogant, annoying, face - but the side of him that had missed him overpowered the violent side of him. He continued to glare though, wanting Sherlock to know he was no happy with him at all and no, he wasn't going to go running into his arms and hug him and be happy he was back.

At least not yet.

"You have a lot of explaining to do. So, shall you do it here or do you want to go to my place to talk about it?" Watson asked,turning from him and going over to the coat rack that was in the corner, grabbing his jacket.

"I was thinking more of my place." Sherlock replied.  
>"Your place? You've been living here? In the city?" Watson snapped, turning back on him, rethinking the idea of giving him a good lashing to the face.<p>

Sherlock shook his head. "No, of course not. I just got here this morning."

"Then how on Earth could you possibly have a place to live already?" Watson asked. Then he stopped and realized something. "You're the buyer of the flat. You're the mysterious person that bought the flat from Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock flashed a smile. "You're smarter than you look." He said, then gave Watson a pat on the arm as he turned to head out the door. "Come on."

Watson watched as he walked out. He couldn't believe that for the past three years Sherlock had been alive and not only that, the mysterious person he had been so worried about living with Mrs. Hudson had been him all along!

Oh yes, sooner or later, Sherlock was going to get socked.


	4. Explain Yourself

Sherlock knew that his sudden appearance was going to stir up a lot of emotions and old memories for Watson and honestly, he hated that he had to put his friend through that - but he was back to stay, so he couldn't very well not tell Watson he was back, only to have them run into each other at a crime scene.

Which would have happened.

He planned on looking into the shooting. The very one that Lestrade had called Watson in on. The mystery of the empty room. It had a nice ring to it and he made a mental note not to tell Watson about it because he was sure the moment he gave the crime a title, John would hurry off to his lap top and reopen his website so he could write everything down about the case.

Right now, Sherlock just wanted his privacy from the world.

He was still a wanted man, framed for crimes that he didn't commit thanks to Moriarty.

The only people who knew he was back was Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and, well, some of Moriarty's friends that he had stick around - just in case Sherlock pulled a quick one on everyone.

Of course, he would tell John about that as soon as they got to Baker St.

"Why can't you say anything now?" John asked, peering over at him as they rode in the cab back to the flat. "I want answers, Sherlock."

"And you'll get them - as soon as we're at the flat." Sherlock replied.

"Why can't I have them now?"

"Because, now is not the right time nor place to be discussing these things and please, keep your voice down," Sherlock glanced at their driver who seemed to be paying them no mind. "The last thing I need is for my name to get slapped onto every newspaper around, claiming that I'm back."

"But you are back." John pointed out. "And sooner or later, people are going to find out."

"Yes, but when I'm good and ready for them to." Sherlock shot John a look. One that clearly shouted 'shut up!'.

John fell silent, huffing, his arms going across his chest. He looked out his window and Sherlock knew he was pissed with him. He had every right to be though. He'd make it up to him in a minute or two. Soon they would be at Baker St. and back in the flat and then he could sit John down and tell him about everything.

Needless to say, the rest of the cab ride over was filled with tense silence. When the car finally pulled up to the curb, Sherlock was quick to pay the driver and to get out. Watson followed after him, his eyes peering into the back of his head. Sherlock knew that now that they were there, Watson was going to be waiting impatiently for him to explain himself.

He quickened his pace so they could get into the flat faster.

Once they stepped in, Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her room and stepped out to greet them both. Mostly Watson. 

"Did you know he was back?" Watson asked without so much as a 'hello' first.

Mrs. Hudson gave him an apologetic look. "Yes. He told me not to tell you..."

"Wonderful." Watson said dryly, peering back at Sherlock who was making his way up the stairs. "I can't believe you told her before you even came to me."

"I do live in her house, John. It was the polite thing to do." Sherlock called back.

Watson huffed, anger flaring in his eyes. Mrs. Hudson reached out and gave his arm a squeeze with her frail fingers. "Don't give him too much of a hard time, dear."

Watson said nothing to that. How could he? Don't give Sherlock a hard time? HA! The man had faked his death! His death had scarred him for life! He still had nightmares of seeing Sherlock falling to his death! He couldn't sleep some nights. Mary would come downstairs and find him in front of the TV or his laptop, just trying to find something to get his mind off of the past.

"John!" Sherlock called down the stairs to him.

Watson rolled his eyes and marched up the stairs to the familiar flat that he and Sherlock use to share. He stepped inside and found Sherlock sitting in his chair, already waiting on him. He motioned for him to come and sit down and Watson did so.  
>After he was settled, he stared at Sherlock. "Explain yourself." He said firmly. "I want answers and I want them now. Do not even THINK about leaving anything out. Do you understand?"<p>

Sherlock gave a faint smile. "Yes."

Watson sighed. "Good. Now...get on with it."

And so Sherlock began his tale.

He started out with the moment that Moriarty escaped from the reporter's apartment after having claimed that he was just an actor. Sherlock had known in the back of his mind that Moriarty was doing all of that to destroy him and in the end, the only outcome for Moriarty's was for him to die. Watson had figured as much and told him to get on with it, so, Sherlock did.

He told John about how he had gone to see Molly and asked for her help in tricking Moriarty. Together they came up with a plan, but he didn't go into details. John told him not to. He had already relived that day a million times over and he wasn't very interested in how he had 'survived' he just wanted to know where he had been all of this time and why he hadn't come back until now.

"I spent the last three years traveling to various places." Sherlock explained. "I thought it was best if everyone continued to believe that I was dead. It would keep you and the other's safe. Moriarty was going to have you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade killed if I didn't jump. He had assasins on you and I figured it was best if I died and left your lives forever than to survive and watch all of you get gunned down in my name."

Watson looked down at the floor, taking all of this in.

"Was there a an assassin trained on me that day?" He asked quietly, looking back over at Sherlock. "When you...when you fell?"

"Yes." Came Sherlock's own quiet reply.

"Sherlock...you shouldn't have done that-"

"And let you die?" Sherlock's brow creased deeply. "I couldn't let that happen, John. Not to you. Not to Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson."

Watson nodded, then motioned for him to continue.

"I traveled to Florence while I was away. Did some small jobs here and there - then I travelled to Tibet and wandered around there for a couple of years. I met the 'head lama'." Sherlock smirked. "That was a interesting day...but shortly after that I left and was incognito as a Norwegian explorer. I gave myself a new name 'Sigerson'." Watson scoffed at the name and Sherlock smiled a bit. "I know, ridiculous name. I didn't keep it long because after that I went to Persia, then Mecca, and had a brief stopover with the Khalifa in Khartoum."

"You really got around." Watson said, impressed.

Sherlock nodded. "I never stayed in one place for too long. Eventually I ended up in France, doing chemical research on coal tar derivatives in Montepllier."

"And then what? After that you decided to just move back home?" Watson asked.

"I was slowly transitioning back here, yes."

"Why? Why come back after all of this time? It can't be because of the murder that happened. It just happened the other day. So, you were planning on coming back for another reason. What was it?"

Sherlock huffed, looking away. "Mycroft cut me off."

Watson's brow rose. "Excuse me? What?"

"Mycroft. He stopped sending me money. He said if I wanted to live my life I had best find a good job somewhere or come back here and make things right."

Watson's eyes flashed with anger again. "Mycroft knew you were alive?" He asked.

Sherlock inwardly cringed. "Yes."

"I can't believe this!" Watson got up, running his fingers through his hair, looking beyond pissed. "You fake your death and you get to travel all around the world without a single care - yet I'm stuck here, depressed and heart broken for MONTHS, YEARS, talking to Mycroft about it and Mrs. Hudson and what do I find out? OH, they've known my best friend was alive all this time! I cannot believe them!" Watson had half a mind to find Mycroft and fong him.

"It's not like you've been entirly alone, now is it?" Sherlock snapped, breaking through Watson's furious rant. Watson looked back at him in confusion. "Oh please, don't give me that look. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've got Mary - that...wife...of yours. You've not been lonely for some time. In fact, I'm sure she's given you hardly any time to miss me."

"That's not fair." Watson growled.

"What? I am just pointing out the fact that, yes, even though this horrible thing happened and no one told you I was still around - you moved on and found someone else to spend your time with. She's not exactly the type of person I would have chosen, but I suppose she'll do."

There it was.

That arrogant attitude of his.

"Becareful how you speak about my wife." Watson replied.

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist, John." Sherlock got up from his chair. "And if it'll make you feel any better - take a swing at me." He stripped off his jacket then, taking the scarf off along with it. "Come on, one good punch, right here." He gave a pat to his cheek. "I deserve it and the sooner you get out all of this anger, the sooner we can get back to normal. So, come on then."

Watson was taken back to that day when they had met Miss Adler.

He had enjoyed hitting Sherlock.

Without another second's hesitation, he swung.

His fist connected with Sherlock sharp cheek bone and he watched as the other man stumbled back, his hand going to his face.

"Feel better?" Sherlock asked.  
>A second later, however, Watson swung again, getting him a second time. This time Sherlock stumbled back into a nearby book shelf and stared at him like he had lost his marbles.<p>

"NOW I feel better." Watson said with a sigh of relief. "But you're still a ruddy prat for what you did."

"Noted." Sherlock said, rubbing his face, but he knew that this would be the end of it. Watson had accepted that he was back and soon the two of them could get into investigating this case.


	5. We Have Things to Do

"So...now what?" Watson asked a bit awkwardly.

Sherlock was off to the side, a towel filled with ice pressed against his bruised face. "Now, we solve the murder case of Ronald Adair."

"Do you have a idea of who did it?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied, which didn't surprise Watson at all. Sherlock was always five steps ahead of everyone else.

"Who was it then?"

Sherlock brought the towel down, revealing that his cheek was a bit swollen. For a second Watson felt a twinge of guilt, but it didn't last long. He knew Sherlock deserved it - even if the ruddy idiot had faked his death to save the lives of his friends.

It didn't fill the void of three years of pain and loss.

Watson was sure the grudge he felt against Sherlock would go away soon enough, but for now he felt like he had every right to be a little ticked with him.

Sherlock touched the side of his face with a bit of a wince, then answered Watson's question. "A man by the name of Moran. Colonel Moran. He worked along side Moriarty."

Watson's brow creased. "But...why would one of Moriarty's old mates take a shot at Ronald Adair?"

"I have a theory, though it bothers me..." Sherlock admitted.

"What do you think happened?"

"As far as I can tell, Adair was shot because he found out Moran was cheating at a game of cards. The two played together and with Moran being well known for being a great player, if Adair went out and slandered his name, he would be ruined. No one in the city would trust him ever again. So, to save face, he killed Adair." Sherlock shrugged. "It want to say there was more behind it, but that's all I can come up with. Sometimes, John, people kill for the most pointless reasons."

Watson nodded, understanding that.

"So, how are you planning on turning Moran in?" He asked then, wondering what kind of plan Sherlock had concocted.

Sherlock locked eyes with John. "Have you noticed something since arriving in this apartment?"

Watson, confused, glanced around. "Um...no?...It's...messy?"

There were boxes everywhere. Papers laying on the floor. Clothes thrown here and there. A moment later, however, his eyes landed on a life sized dummy. One that Sherlock repeatedly used for experiments before in the past. It was standing there by the window, dressed in complete Sherlock attire.

"Ummmm...the dummy?" He asked then.

Sherlock nodded. "Can you guess why it's dressed like me?"

'No. I can honestly say I can't.' Watson thought to himself, but he knew Sherlock would want him to at least try. He looked back over at the dummy and narrowed his eyes a bit in thought. Why would Sherlock have it dressed like him? What was the purpose?

"I...I'm not sure." Watson finally said, defeated. He couldn't figure it out. He had a feeling though that the answer was going to be so obvious that he'd feel stupid once Sherlock explained it to him.

"It's a dummy." Sherlock replied.

Watson sat there and blinked. "...Yes...I know that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's there to trick Moran into thinking it's me. He's trying to kill me, John."

Watson's eyes grew wide. "What?"

"Moran worked for Moriarty and unfortunately, even after Moriarty's death, Moran has continued to keep a eye on me. I thought my death might shake him off, but he grew wise and found out that I was alive. I traveled a lot to shake him off of my trail and I did for a while. The moment I stepped foot into London though - somehow he got the word that I was back and now he wants to finish the job that Moriarty wasn't able to." Sherlock stared over at the dummy. "I plan on luring Moran out by having him think that that is me. He'll try to 'kill me', but unbeknownist to him - the authorities will be close by, ready to take him down."

"And where will you be in all of this?"

"In the empty flat across the street. It'll give us a great view of Baker St and I'm sure I will be able to spot Moran from there." Sherlock flashed Watson a smile - one of triumph that said he knew he was going to win this little game. Quickly, he got to his feet. "So, we should probably head over there and wait for things to transpire."

Watson got up from his chair, but then stopped and quickly shook his head. "No, I can't." He replied.

Sherlock kinked a brow. "Why not?"

"I have a dinner date with Mary, my wife." Watson said, glancing down at his watch. "I can't go with you, if I cancel this date with her, she'll be heart broken." 

"Simple. Just call her and tell her something came up at work." Sherlock said, putting his jacket and scarf back on.

"What? I can't do that. It would be lying."

"Not really." Sherlock replied. "You were called in on the Adair case - tynically, you're still working it. Only instead of working it with Lestrade, you are working it with me. I'm sure she'll understand once you come home and tell her all about what happened today."

Watson shook his head. "No, Sherlock, I can't-"

"You can. Come on." Sherlock wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer from Watson. He turned and left the flat, making his way down the stairs.

Watson just stared after him, feeling stressed and frustrated. The thing that was probably frustrating him the most? It wasn't the fact that Sherlock was telling him to cancel his dinner date with Mary, it was the fact that he WANTED to cancel the dinner date so he could help Sherlock. He had missed this. He had missed the two of them going out there and solving cases. He missed working along side his friend. Dinner dates could always be rescheduled - working a case like this with Sherlock? It was something he didn't want to miss out on.

But he knew he was going to break Mary's heart.

He'd have to make it up to her somehow.

With a heavy sigh, Watson took out his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the house number. He cleared his throat and after a few rings, Mary answered.  
>"John! I was hoping you would call. The restaurant called and said that they have the table ready for us and that they would hold it until six."<p>

Watson instantly felt his stomach twist. "Um...Mary..."  
>"We're not going, are we?" Mary asked then, a bit of annoyance in her tone, but not with him. "Your work, I swear...Is there not any way you can just forget about work for tonight?"<p>

"I'm sorry, there's something big I'm having to do for Lestrade." Watson replied, though it pained him to lie to her. Mary was so sweet and kind and understanding.

Lying to her just made him feel like a complete and utter wanker.

Mary was quiet for a moment or two, then when she spoke up she sounded so defeated. "Shall I cancel the dinner reservations then?" She asked.

"I'm so sorry..." Watson said quietly.

"Just come home as soon as you can, that way some of this day might not be a complete ruin." With that, Mary hung up.

Watson closed his eyes, knowing good and well he would have to make this up to her somehow. Then he pocketed his cellphone again and made his way out of the flat. He found Sherlock waiting for him outside, a ball cap on his head and his coat having been left inside in exchange for another jacket -almost like a sport's jacket.

Watson was going to ask how he had changed - and why - but he decided not to.

"She's not mad with you." Sherlock said as he got closer.

Watson's brow creased. He would ask him what he was talking about - if he didn't already know. Sherlock always had a way of knowing what was going on. "She sounded upset."

"She was, but she's not mad at you. Now come on. We've got an assassin to take down." Sherlock gave him a pat on the arm, then stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and made his way across the street.


	6. Tell Me About Her

Sherlock and Watson made their way across the street. No words were said as Watson walked briskly behind the other man, his body racked with guilt over the canceled dinner plans with his wife. He couldn't believe he had canceled things to help Sherlock with this case. The man just waltz back into his life and instantly it was like nothing had happened and he allowed it to be that way!

He should have still been cussing him out for all that he had done!

He should have been bashing him over the head with stray bottles found along the road side! - well, there weren't exactly any bottles along the street because the city kept it relatively clean - but still!

Poor Mary.

She was probably sitting at home, crying her eyes out.

"She's fine." Sherlock suddenly spoke up as they entered into the apartment building across the street. Watson followed him inside, though said nothing. He knew his wife wasn't fine. She was more than likely holding onto their wedding album, wondering why she married a man that brought her so much disappointment. "Will you stop?"

Watson peered at Sherlock. "What? I didn't say anything!" He snapped.

"You were thinking it." Sherlock snapped back, leading him up the stairs. "Your wife is fine. Mary is a good woman, she would never think badly of you. In fact, I bet she has made herself some tea, popped in one of her favorite movies, and is cuddled up on the couch, forgetting that the two of you even had plans this evening."

"My wife - she wouldn't - how...How do you even know what she would be doing?" Watson asked, now feeling a bit flustered that Sherlock seemed to think that he knew Mary better than he did.

"I've seen her." Sherlock replied, stopping at a door on the second floor of the building. He and Watson faced one another and Watson gave him a bit of a scowl.

"You've seen my wife?" Watson asked, not believing him.  
>Sherlock nodded. "Yes." He replied.<p>

"What does she look like then?" Watson crossed his arms over his chest.

Sherlock didn't answer right away.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a key, then brought it to the door lock and inserted it. A second later, with the flick of his wrist, the door came unlocked and he opened up the apartment. Once that was done, his mind was free to answer John.

"She's a small woman." He replied. "Slender, heart shaped face, bright green eyes and ginger hair. She has some freckles speckled about her cheeks and her arms and hands which seem to stand out more after she's been in the sunlight for some time." Sherlock shrugged and stepped inside the apartment that was bare. No furniture, no anything. Watson could only guess that Sherlock had rented the place for the sole purpose of staking out their old apartment across the street.

However, right now, his mind was not on the case at hand.

He wanted to know what else Sherlock knew about his wife. "How did you see her? Do you know anything else about her?" He asked.

Sherlock locked the door back, then marched through the empty apartment and made his way to one of the back rooms that faced the apartment. Inside a room to the right was a room that had two chairs in it. Apparently Sherlock had been planning on John taking him up on his offer.

"Sherlock." Watson said firmly. "What else do you know about my wife? Have you been spying on her or something?"

Sherlock went to the window and peered out of the blinds.  
>It was the perfect view to see everything going on in the apartment across the street. The dummy set up was doing a splendid job looking just like him. He smiled.<p>

"Sherlock!" Watson snapped.

With a sigh, Sherlock turned to his friend. "Of course I was spying on her."

John's eyes grew large. "WHAT?"

"After everything we went through with Moriarty? I wasn't about to take any chances. I had to make sure she had no connections with Moriarty or those who worked for him." Sherlock explained. "I know she's a hard working young woman who comes from a middle class family. I know that she was madly in love with you the day she married you and still is. I also know that no matter what you do, she will always forgive you...because that's the kind of woman she is." His voice had softened and Watson's anger had subsided. "She's a good woman, John. Congratulations is in order."

"A congratulations is a bit late..." Watson replied, offering a faint smile.

Sherlock motioned at the chair for him to sit and Watson did so, straightening out his shirt and pants before looking over at his friend who had took a seat beside him.

"Tell me about her." Sherlock's request came as a bit of a surprise to Watson. He stared at him as he he might have heard him wrong. Sherlock motioned for him to go ahead though. He truly wanted to hear more about Mary.

"What is there to say?" John said after a moment, looking away from his friend. "She helped keep me sane. She...chased away the darkness that your death put me in."

Sherlock smiled faintly, though his eyes were filled with a certain kind of sorrow.

John continued. "She's a good woman, Sherlock. The best in fact. I don't know what I would do without her...and I feel horrible for leaving her home alone on our only night to be together. She didn't have to work this evening and now she's sitting at home, all alone. She was looking forward to that dinner."

"I'll make it up to you both. I promise." Sherlock replied. "Besides, I doubt this stake out will take very long. Moran usually shows up rather quickly-" He was suddenly cut off by the sound of the apartment door coming unlocked.

"Who is that?" Watson asked. "No one lives here, right?"

"Exactly. So, there's only one person that could be." Sherlock slowly rose from his chair. He spoke quietly now, making sure that he couldn't be heard by anyone but Watson. "It appears, John, that Moran has had the same idea."

Watson quickly got up from his chair. "He'll have a gun." He said. "He'll be armed."

"I know."

"Do you have a gun?" Watson asked.

Sherlock gave a shake of his head. "Nope."

"Then what do we do?"

"...I say we go out there and confront him." Sherlock began making his way out of the room.

Watson stood there in shock for a moment, then quickly, willed himself to move and began making his way after Sherlock. "Stop!" He hissed. "What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed - again?" But his words fell on deaf ears as Sherlock stepped out and into the hallway, making his way to the living room where there was another window facing the flat - and where Moran was currently setting up his sniper rifle, getting ready to shoot the dummy Sherlock.


End file.
